Chapter 156

The Suppressed Torrent and Trembling — My thoughts on the so-called slow or dull plot from Chapter 113 (Beginning) to Chapter 124 (Unveiling).

Last night, having some free time, I went back and re-read the twelve chapters from "Beginning" to "Unveiling" several times. I also read through the comments section, and couldn't help but feel a knot in my throat, something I needed to express. After returning home today and switching to my usual keyboard, my first thought was to write this out immediately and get it off my chest.

The common criticisms of these dozen or so chapters revolve around a slow plot progression, messy or empty content, and a failure to get to the point. However, my feeling is quite the opposite. As I re-read these chapters, each time I felt a more profound tremor – a tremor from suppressed fear, from surging adrenaline, from the unknown.

In fact, the author "Banana" is still building the plot in these dozen chapters. However, I believe this widely criticized plot development is, in my opinion, the most brilliant part of the book so far – the most classic setup. Previous plot arrangements, climaxes, or moments of brilliance simply cannot compare to the setup in these chapters. To borrow a phrase from Wu Qilong, they are "not on the same level at all." It is only through the groundwork laid in these chapters that the book's first major climax can truly reach its peak and be expressed with full intensity. All of this, in essence, is due to a simple literary technique: contrast.

Indeed, it's just the most inconspicuous contrast. The Su family's situation is like standing at the edge of an abyss: no retreat, and moving forward means utter destruction. Above them, dark clouds hang heavy, thunder rumbles faintly, and flashes of lightning flicker, poised to strike as a tempest looms. Inside the Su household, there's a show of strength covering internal weakness; the second and third branches are in a frantic mess; the Old Master rushes about in desperation; and all the head stewards are at a loss. Outside, wolves surround them: all former business rivals watch intently, mockingly observing the Su family's futile struggles; the Xue family is fully prepared to kick them when they're down; and the Wu family is ready for a direct, decisive, bayonet-to-bayonet kill. The Su family's friends (well, Ning Yi's girlfriends) are troubled but powerless to help. The Su family sees no hope—none at all, no matter how they look. This suffocating despair drives people to madness and fear. I wonder if any readers have ever stood on a cliff edge just before a thunderstorm. I have, and luckily wasn't struck by lightning (thanks to good deeds in my daily life, indeed). The feeling is the same: the thunderclouds seem right before you, the hidden thunder within them echoes around you, and the oppressively humid air envelops you. Yet beneath your feet, there's only a cliff, no path, no hope. At that moment, in that place, you see no future, only despair—a despair so absolute it's despairing (not a grammatical error). In these chapters, "Banana" uses his pen to depict such a desperate environment. Perhaps his literary skill isn't quite sufficient to fully capture it, but by engaging one's imagination, one can still experience it as if present, feeling the oppression and the madness.

But simultaneously, he paints another picture. In a small courtyard within the Su residence, four chattering little girls are present: one lying on the bed, three gathered around it. They occasionally play chess, or simply jest and tease each other, or glance at account books. The room is as warm as spring. In the outer room is a man in a green robe. He sometimes strolls in the courtyard, sometimes walks through the city, sometimes reads, sometimes drinks tea. But what he does most often is hold a teacup, a smile playing on his lips—a smile that seems mocking, indifferent—as he watches the dark clouds outside the window, the faint thunder and lightning, the wolves circling and demons dancing. He is elegant, composed, and tranquil; not even a tremor passes through the fingers holding the teacup. His hand is as steady as the one that wielded the brush on Jiuyu Tower during the Lantern Festival, as the one that swiftly and silently trapped the head of the Yang family's young son at the shipyard outside the city, even while a rope, not fully severed, still entangled it. It is as steady as a hand, one moment engulfed in flames, the next holding a knife without hesitation. This stability is terrifying, inspiring fear of the human heart, yet it is also filled with anticipation.

Such vivid and intense contrasts flash repeatedly throughout these twelve chapters, scene after scene. Though seemingly fragmented, they are incredibly cohesive. This narrative technique, typically found in filmmaking, is employed by "Banana" in his novel. It's hard to say what the overall effect is, but at least I felt this shocking, trembling contrast—horrifying yet strangely alluring, and full of anticipation.

As for the subsequent plot, I personally feel it loses much of its significance; it's merely a conclusion. The kind of conclusion I prefer is subtle, for instance, at the moment the downpour begins, facing the dark clouds and the torrential rain, one might softly say: "The sky should clear now," and then it does. However, I don't believe "Banana" has this style. The Ning Yi depicted by "Banana," to use a comment I made previously when reviewing "Heart Like a Tiger" – "I must say, these two chapters are classic" – is the Ning Yi who rises from the lowest ranks to the peak, ruthlessly eliminating anything that stands in his way. He now inhabits a new body, subtly baring his fangs, coolly smirking as he gazes at all his surrounding enemies, a bloody and sinister glow flickering on the tips of his teeth.